


Under My Skin

by SammiSafetypin



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Coping, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Sexual Assault, Self-Harm, but there is comfort you just gotta hold out for it, flashbacks to assault but i tried to keep it like . tasteful and non-explicit u know, i think that should be obvious but im saying it anyways, mostly hurt !, this is NOT a weddie fic the flashbacks are NOT meant to be sexy in any way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SammiSafetypin/pseuds/SammiSafetypin
Summary: It's been a year since the Mount Massive incident, and Waylon doesn't think that he's doing any better. It definitely doesn't feel like it when meltdowns come for him full force, and asking for help feels like just another selfish action on his part.
Relationships: Waylon Park/Miles Upshur, lisa n waylon too but its very in th background, polyam babeyyyy but thts not rlly the focus at all
Comments: 6
Kudos: 42





	Under My Skin

**Author's Note:**

> paragraphs written in bold are flashback narration 
> 
> hey hi hello ! wow my uhh first Outlast fic ! i only got into teh game a couple of weekz ago courtesy of my friend zoe and i just .. INSTANTLY hyperfixated . i love dis game and i Especially love waylon n rlly rlly wanted to write about him and exploring his emotions n stuff . so here's some mildly canon-divergent sad waylon for yall . i rlly love him as a character n this was both fun and incredibly painful to write . you dont know how relieved i was when i got to teh actual comfort , and i was the one choosing to write it dis way

It isn’t fair. It isn’t _fair_. Who it isn’t fair to, he doesn’t know, but it just isn’t fair. Waylon is currently sitting paralyzed on the edge of the couch, trying to will himself to get up. He doesn’t like that he gets this way all the time. It feels unfair to the others that he’s such a mess that they always have to be taking care of. Sure, he tries to help them too, but it’s clear to him that he’s the one having the most constant meltdowns. Lisa had always teased him for how emotional he was his whole life, getting tearful at every strong emotion no matter how positive or negative. He wasn’t, isn’t a coward — at least, he doesn’t think he is — but his emotions always seemed to have more control over his body than he did. 

That fact isn’t any help to him now that it seemed like every shadow, every thing that doesn’t go how he plans it, every noise when he isn’t expecting it is something out to get him. He wonders distantly if Simon makes that better or worse, constantly more interested in poking his head through windows than knocking on a door. There’s a nice reassurance of _oh, it’s probably just Simon,_ but the extra sudden noises don’t ever make Waylon feel better. And besides, Simon is hardly at the forefront of his mind at the moment. He hasn’t shown up since Waylon had screamed at him a week ago.

His mind buzzes, and he covers his face with his hands — then promptly uncovers it again. He needs to see his surroundings, and covering his eyes never makes the burning lights from the engine go away. God, it’s been nearly a year now, can’t those memories stop? He supposes the point of that piece of shit machine was to make memories worse, including the ones of itself. 

_And I enabled it. Two weeks, and how many years oblivious?_ He pulls his legs up to his chest, nervous something will reach out and grab him by the ankle. _I wouldn’t have had a right to be upset if I died there._

He hates when he gets like this. He knows he’s prone to spiraling. One memory would trigger another, and all of a sudden he would be immobilized, too frightened to move until he scrambled into a rudimentary hiding place and curled up and away from a nonexistent threat. His therapist said he was doing better, but he doesn’t think he believes that at all when he can hardly make it 48 hours without getting upset. He’s a disaster. Barely keeping it together, and he can hardly pretend that he’s stable. _And what right do you have to throw a pity party? You’re only traumatized because you make bad decision after bad decision._

It hadn’t even been a big deal this time. His mind had just started slowly spiraling, too much time spent awake and left to his own devices. He could go get on his laptop, try to get work done, but some part of him won’t let his body move from the couch. Every attempt at moving feels robotic, false, like he’s barely controlling his own body. Maybe it isn’t his body. All he ever did with it was run from what other people wanted him to do, and fuck himself up even more. He scratches at one of the larger scars on his arm, one he isn’t sure of the exact source of. It’s just there to remind him he can’t be the same again. That’s what every old burn and gash seems to stand for. You’re changed forever. You’re _broken_. Used and broken and so _fucking_ stupid. Thinking about it only makes his mind swim, dredging up all the thoughts again.

**The blood is roaring in his ears and he can’t speak, can’t think, can only clutch his camera with weak, dirty hands and pray that this isn’t how he dies. The metal scraping against the floor as he’s shoved along is so loud that it almost drowns out the cooing monologue above him.**

He shakes his head, trying to push the thought away. He doesn’t want to think about it. He’ll get more upset the more he thinks about it. But that doesn’t make it go away. His eyes dart around the room, searching for something to focus on.

**Waylon murmurs as he clings to his camera, a soft “no, no, no, please no”, probably too quiet to actually be heard, but it wouldn’t matter anyways. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He’s going to die here. He doesn’t want to die this way. He doesn’t want to think about what his body will end up looking like, if anyone even finds it. He almost hopes they don’t. That this whole place rots silently, but it wouldn’t be fair to all the people that Murkoff hurt. He just hopes his body is one kicked under the rug. He never thought he’d wish for that.**

There are no tiles on the ceiling to count. It’s a popcorn ceiling and he can’t section it apart in his mind to turn into numbers. The TV remote is lying somewhere to his side, and he clumsily grasps for it and starts to hazily count the buttons. Count, Waylon, count. The buzzing makes him lose track and his breath hitches with panic as he has to start all over. Ink blots dance in his vision and he feels like he’s going to be sick.

**Everything starts to get blurry and his consciousness fades in and out and the realization he’s being drugged sends him right back to being beaten senseless by Blaire’s goons. A memory within a memory, how fucking delightful. There’s nothing to focus on in the dark, cramped space of the locker except for the gore outside. He hasn’t been to this part of the basement yet. He doesn’t want to know what the table is used for. Curiosity killed the fucking cat 9 times in a row already when he started working for Murkoff in the first place. He feels like he’s going to find out anyways.**

44, there are 44 buttons on the remote. He counts them twice before he gives up on it. He needs something else. When is Lisa going to be home? She’s at work, right? God he hopes that she’s at work and nothing bad has happened. The boys are in their room (again, he hopes) and he isn’t going to bother them with his crying. He feels like Miles said where he was wandering off to today but his mind can’t focus enough to tell him where. He hopes he’s home soon but he also hopes that he isn’t. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He craves comfort and for someone to say “I’m here, it’s okay”, but he’s also ashamed and terrified to think of someone looking at him right now.

 **He starts to sob at some point. He can’t help it. This place has jaded him some but not enough to stop his crying. The screaming and gore doesn’t get easier to stomach, especially not when it’s happening right in front of him. A body already gone is easier to deal with, he realizes. Hearing these people wail and knowing he’s just laying there, too dazed and scared to do a thing, is horrible.**

**Why doesn’t he try to do anything? His body won’t respond to any movements he tries to make. He thinks he dropped his camera to the locker floor at some point. He wants it back. He watches a man’s face be split open on a spinning sawblade. The sounds are too much. He hiccups and coughs and cries, angry and disgusted and scared. He watches Eddie move bodies around, barely able to follow along between the sedative in his system and the tears blurring his vision.**

_Of course you just watched like some sort of voyeuristic freak,_ some part of Waylon’s mind comments, and he tries to reason against it, but the battle against himself doesn’t help anything. It only introduces the idea that maybe he’s just trying to make himself feel better by justifying himself. He hates having to think so much. He starts counting the flower patterns on the ugly floor rug. It looks like it belongs in a grandmother’s house. Lisa’s sense of decoration. Even being in an apartment that probably wouldn’t be permanent hadn’t stopped her from wanting to personalize it. It makes Waylon laugh just a little bit. He starts at one corner of the rug so he doesn’t lose count. The numbers are a thin, numb layer over the flickering memories.

**He’s barely conscious, about to slip away again when he realizes footsteps are getting louder, louder, and then there’s the metallic click of the locker’s latch being undone. He tries to struggle away but there’s nowhere to run to, and he’s pulled out of the locker roughly. He isn’t conscious enough to stand on his own, especially not with the horrible pain that shoots up his injured leg when it thumps against the locker door. He feels like a limp ragdoll as Eddie pulls him close, stroking his hair in a motion that’s far too gentle for the same man that was just brutalizing whoever he came across.**

**“I’m sorry, darling, that must have been awful to see,” Eddie coos, and Waylon wants nothing more in this moment than a quick, merciful death. “I’ve been foolish, to think those were the ones for me, when such a precious thing is right here. I’m so glad you’ve decided to stop running.”**

**Dying is better. Dying is better. Dying is better. Kill him now.**

Twenty-four flowers. Twenty-four little flower decorations that are not doing Waylon any good. He can feel hands ghosting along his body. He can’t _move_. His chest is tight and he can hardly even breathe. It always happens. It _always_ does, and he’ll either sob it out on his own, or someone will have to calm him down. _You always make it about yourself. They’re hurting too, you know. You’re not special._

He wants it to stop. He digs his nails into his arms, irritating a scar or two. It doesn’t really register in his mind.

 **Eddie continues to hold him, murmuring words that aren’t clear in Waylon’s head. The world isn’t clear. It’s blurry and swimming and he’ll question over and over again if this part of his personal hell really happened or if it was a nightmare. He knows that Eddie is complimenting him, that his hands are easing towards places that make Waylon want to cry even more. Nothing he can do to stop it. He remembers being told that he’s perfect. That it’ll be grand once he’s been ‘prepared’. The perfect bride. Waylon wants to protest that he has a family already, that he’s not anyone’s bride, but his mouth won’t form the words.**

Screaming and crying and begging never stopped anybody anyways. Waylon feels tears running down his face as he lets his mind replay whatever it feels like. There’s the feeling of a hand stroking his arm gently. He tries to scratch it away.

**“Shush, shush, no need to cry …” He remembers being told that. He remembers hearing, “I’ll be kinder with you, because you’re so beautiful.”**

**And it’s all so, so blurry but he swears that he remembers Eddie saying something about calming them both down and then there’s a flash of pain through the knee that got burnt in the furnace. He blacks out again at some point but he isn’t sure when because everything is half-formed and buzzing and maybe this isn’t really something that ever happened. All he’s sure of is pain and his hair being pulled harshly and the words ‘slut’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘darling’.**

Waylon is sobbing at this rate, one hand clasped over his mouth, hoping to muffle himself or at least block out the pain. He’s home. He keeps telling himself that. He’s home and he’s in the apartment and no one is going to hurt him. And it helps somewhat to try and remain grounded, but it’s still painful to keep remembering things and for every awful memory to be surrounded by blame. He _hates_ Eddie. He knows that he does. Eddie was a disgusting person with nothing but rage and lust in his heart, and he let those combine into something monstrous. He was a monster before Mount Massive. But they made him worse. Said they’d treat his trauma and his violence but all they really wanted was to intensify it all. Waylon had watched it happen, had _helped_ them torment him and fill him with even more rage. _Maybe what he did to you was your punishment. Not just another bride to mutilate in anger, but a special kind of revenge._

That doesn’t make sense. Waylon knows that it doesn’t make sense. But despite all his hatred for Eddie, his mind still tries to find a way to twist it back around into his own fault. He didn’t feel bad for the doctors and guards that were murdered by random variants. It was horrible, gory, and cruel, sure, but it was hard to feel bad for somebody being killed by the people that _they_ turned into monsters. _What right do you have to act like you’re different?_

**The next time he wakes up he’s restrained and his head is pounding. Tight ropes bind his wrists and ankles against splintering wood. His gashed leg rubs uncomfortably against the rope, pulling the skin apart further. He instinctively struggles, the very idea of restraints filling him with fear. The beating. The engine. The furnace. Being beaten again. The locker. It was always about trapping him, holding him down. He continues to writhe, certain that he can get out with enough time and strength. But he’s still dazed and there is no time. He hears footsteps coming towards him and he freezes and that’s when he realizes he isn’t wearing anything.**

**No. No, no, no, no. He has to get away. He doesn’t know exactly what’s going to be done to him but he knows it’ll be horrible and bloody and violating. He doesn’t want Eddie to get to see him naked. Just the thought that he must have been the one to strip him down is sickening. But Waylon doesn’t have the time to break away and run because all of a sudden Eddie is looking over him, leering. Waylon tries to glare hatefully back but it’s difficult to focus on anything except how vulnerable he feels.**

**"A shame about this injury.” Eddie practically purrs, running his hand over Waylon’s broken leg. “You really do have such lovely bone structure. And the perfect amount of muscle to compliment it, too! You’re going to be beautiful.”**

**“I— I don’t—“ Waylon splutters, continuing to struggle. The table doesn’t seem that well-built, he can break free if he tries hard enough, but he’s almost entirely sure Eddie will notice and kill him before he can if he tries. “Please don’t.”**

**“Ah, ah, it’s alright. It’ll be quick.” Eddie tells him, continuing to feel his leg and then up his side. It’s such a gentle, airy touch, and it feels wrong, wrong, wrong.**

Waylon can’t think. He can barely reassure himself that he’s home. He can see the layout of the apartment living room but the feelings of hands groping and stroking him, yanking his hair and tracing across his leg, are such strong sensations. Mumbling to himself that “he’s dead, he’s dead, he isn’t here, he’s dead,” is not very convincing, no matter how true he knows that it is. Eddie is going to hurt him again, he’s sure of it. And if not him, then someone else will. He hears footsteps coming towards the door and that’s the only thing that encourages his body to move.

He isn’t balanced at all, fumbling and stumbling awkwardly off of the couch and towards the counter that’s split between the living room and kitchen. The countertop is wider than the rest of the counter, and there are two chairs on either side. He collapses to his knees, a movement that makes his breath catch in his throat with fear, before crawling between the chairs and the counter. The TV remote is still in his hands, clutched the way he would hold his camera oh-so-protectively. The feeling of hands and the memories of every awful word do not go away, in fact the tight space makes his chest twist and tighten worse than before, but he needs to hide. He doesn’t want to be hurt. The door is opening. He tries to muffle his crying.

**Waylon starts to hyperventilate, chest heaving like a terrified bird. He’s never been one to really believe in God but he’s more certain now than ever that there is no God, or at least not one that even remotely cares about humanity. Eddie continues to run his hand up Waylon’s leg and side, and then back down again, continuing to talk to him in a horribly polite tone.**

**“I wouldn’t want to hurt my bride, after all.” With the hand that isn’t stroking Waylon’s thigh, Eddie reaches for something across the table. Some sort of switch, Waylon thinks, but it’s hard to tell from his position. “We’ll just cut away all the … vulgar, unnecessary parts. And it will hurt, I mustn’t lie to you, but I’ll hold your hand if you need me to. And then we can finally consummate our love, and you’ll begin growing our children.”**

**“I— I can’t, please, I can’t—“ Waylon shakes his head, eyes rapidly changing focus between Eddie’s face and the blood-stained sawblade positioned between his legs. A memory of the man being stabbed through the groin flashes through Waylon’s eyes, and he starts to fully realize exactly what Eddie is going to do to him. “I’m begging you, I— I’ll do anything— please!”**

**Begging makes him feel horrible. He’s a grown man, and he’s begging and pleading instead of standing up for himself or trying to break free. Maybe getting brutally stabbed while trying to break the table would be preferable. Better than being mutilated and raped on a rudimentary operating table. Eddie would probably slaughter him when he realized he couldn’t have his children, anyways. If he doesn’t bleed out before then. It occurs to him that Eddie’s continued talking to him and he’s barely processed it. He won’t stop caressing Waylon’s leg. And then the sawblade roars to life.**

“...Park?” The gruff voice, not faux-kind enough to be Eddie’s, cuts through the air of the apartment. Waylon doesn’t move. He doesn’t want to be caught, to be hurt, to be seen this way. He can see a pair of dirty boots scuffing around, stopping a few feet short of his hiding spot. “Is that you?”

Waylon knows, logically, that Miles isn’t going to do anything bad. He isn’t going to be angry with him for having an episode, or hurt him further. He doesn’t think he would, anyways. It would’ve happened by now if he would, he reasons. Miles isn’t going to degrade him or chase him with a blade or tie him down someway. But he still can’t will himself to leave his hiding spot, frightened of what will happen or perhaps just ashamed. He realizes he must look completely pathetic. He pulls his legs up closer to his chest, shivering at the continued body memory along his thigh and down his prosthetic leg. _Please stop. Please leave me alone._

“Hey— it’s alright. Breathe, Park.” Miles says, crouching down a bit. “You want me to step back?”

“Please.” Waylon wheezes. Miles obliges, shuffling backwards.

“What happened?” Miles tips his head, concern etched across his face. Waylon can’t answer him. Nothing he can say would feel like the right answer.

**He’s screaming now, writhing against his constraints. The saw is moving steadily up the table, closer and closer to him. He can’t look away as he tries desperately to free himself. The wood is creaking but not fast enough and he’s filled with more terror than he ever thought possible. Eddie is smiling like nothing is wrong, humming a tune as he watches Waylon struggle. He has one hand on Waylon and one hand out of sight, and it’s clear that he isn’t going to have a change of heart any time soon.**

“...Can I sit by you?” Miles asks, and Waylon doesn’t process the question until several seconds after it’s asked. He nods jerkily, and Miles sits himself down on the floor, legs crossed. He’s next to Waylon’s hiding space, but doesn’t look directly at him. “Take your time. I don’t got anything else to do.”

Waylon hiccups, staring down at himself. How does he explain how he feels right now? He’s certain that Miles understands guilt and terror and feeling like he isn’t a part of his own body. He’ll understand. _And he’ll think that you think you’re the only one with problems._ One imagined hand pinches at his wrist, and he gasps and curls into himself even further. Miles gives him a sympathetic look that makes Waylon close his eyes. _Please don’t look at me._

“Memories?” Miles guesses, and Waylon nods again. He feels like somebody is trying to pull his clothes off. “You wanna talk about it?”

“I— I don’t know…” Something about Miles’s awkward casualness is soothing, but Waylon is still in a full-blown panic state. The walls seem to be closing around him. He blinks and there’s ink blots and whining lights everywhere. “I— he—“ 

Miles tips his head inquisitively, silently encouraging Waylon to keep talking.

“I feel like he’s— gonna _hurt_ me, I…” 

**Closer, closer, the blade gets closer and Waylon’s mind has gone blank with terror. The few thoughts that are processing are some variation of ‘god, no’, or hoping against hope that something will stop Eddie. Bits of the table on either side of the sawblade splinter off and Waylon’s legs tremble violently as he tries to writhe into a position that will avoid the blade. It gets closer, and closer, and then—**

**There’s a shout of pain and it isn’t Waylon’s, it isn’t Waylon’s. A blood-covered figure in a tattered, Murkoff-made straitjacket headbutts Eddie in the chin, sending him stumbling backwards. Waylon’s head spins. Now. Now. Now. He has time. While he’s distracted, he has to get away, the blade is still running, hurry hurry hurry hurry _hurry—_**

**The wood that his left wrist is tied to splinters and breaks. A large chunk of it is still tied to his arm but that’s the least of his worries. One limb free, he starts to struggle his other arm back and forth as hard as he can, the wood is breaking and the saw is coming and his right arm is free. But his legs aren’t, his legs aren’t and every movement of his right leg sends screaming pain through this whole body but he has to bear it, the man that saved him is still fighting with Eddie but god knows how long he has. Waylon continues to fight to free his legs, pulling himself up to yank at the ropes with his hands, and all of a sudden splitting pain shoots through him, fuck fuck fuck no no no no _please—!_**

**The wood snaps and Waylon’s left leg is free and he rolls as violently and quickly as he can and pain is everywhere and the right leg’s restraints snap with the force of him rolling onto the floor, he’s bleeding he’s _bleeding,_ how far did it go, he doesn’t have time to look and he doesn’t want to he doesn’t even want to think about his own body. He scrambles around, not stable between his wounds and the rope and wood still around his wrists and ankles. He sees a flash of yellow fabric and he grasps for the dirty uniform as quickly as he can, and his camera on a desk just a few feet away. Did Eddie record all of that, his mind supplies, but his thoughts are going a hundred miles a minute and the most important thing is a stumbling, half-collapsing run that will get him somewhere resembling safe. Someone’s losing the fight. Waylon doesn’t stay around to find out who.**

“Who’s ‘he’?” Miles asks. It isn’t an accusing question. “Sort of a fuckin’ sausagefest of an asylum.”

“Don’t—“ Waylon tenses up, and Miles cusses to himself under his breath. 

“Shit. Sorry. Breathe, Park, it’s okay. Breathe with me.” Miles says, though it sounds more like a suggestion than a direction. Waylon tries anyways, but he’s far too shaky to keep up properly. “Who’s gonna hurt you? Is it Blaire?” 

Waylon shakes his head. Those nightmares were a few days ago. He doesn’t want to add the memory of a gore shower to his mind’s current fit.

“Fuckin’— god, what’s his stupid name…” Miles snaps his fingers a few times. “Gluskin or whatever? Is it him?” 

**Waylon collapses behind a table after turning a few different corners, hoping he’s far away enough to get a few minutes’ respite. There’s a dirty knife some feet away from god-only-knows who or what, so Waylon grasps for it and uses it to shakily cut away the ropes. Rope burns and deep bruises have already formed where he had been restrained, and he tries to not think back to his situation just moments ago but there’s nothing else to focus on. He pulls himself back into his prisoner’s uniform, thankful to be covered again. He focuses on his hands, grimy and scratch-covered, so that he won’t look at the uniform’s newest bloodstains. As far as he can tell without looking, the blade didn’t get to cut very far before he broke free. He’s hurt, hurt in a lot of ways, but he’s still intact, still in one piece. It hurts that that’s what he considers a victory at this point. He has to get out of here. How he hasn’t been rendered unconscious again from pain is a mystery to him, but he’s not going to question it. He stumbles and limps his way in what might be the right direction to go.**

Waylon covers his mouth with his hand, trying to stifle a sob. He can hear Miles shift around awkwardly, and hopes that he isn’t staring at him. 

“I don’t— I don’t want…” Waylon fumbles, not able to verbalize his thoughts properly. His head hurts terribly. “Have to— run, hide, he’ll find me…!”

“Hey, no. Listen,” Miles says. “Can you hear me? Follow what I’m saying?”

“Yeah…” 

“Sick. You’re here, okay? In the apartment. That bastard’s dead and rotting. He can’t get you.”

“I _know,_ but—“ Waylon hiccups. “But it feels like … I feel like he’s _here,_ and…”

“And?”

“I don’t _know!_ He’s going to— hurt me, and I know, I know he isn’t but he _is_ and— I’m going to deserve it!”

Miles frowns. “Why would you deserve it?”

“I didn’t— I— I don’t know! I enabled it! I _helped_ them make him worse! It’s…” he grasps at the edges of his sweater. “I hate him! I hate him but I—“ He starts to hiccup and cough again. “I don’t want to be cut open!”

**He doesn’t know how long he’s been wandering for. Seconds, minutes, hours, maybe even days. His body is begging him to rest, but he’s too afraid to. He doesn’t want to get caught again. There’s a slight crack when he puts pressure on his bad leg, and he wonders how much damage he’s done just by continuing to walk on it. His bruises and cuts burn and he’s hungry and thirsty and tired. He hates this place. He wants it to rot away in the shadows. He sees a few variants shambling around and he still feels bad for them, God knows it isn’t their fault how Murkoff treated them, but he’s mostly focused on himself. Is it selfish? He doesn’t know. He just wants to go home. Die if it weren’t for the fact that he needs to get back to Lisa and the boys. He wonders how the reporter he contacted is doing, if that email even got out at all. Maybe it’s for nothing. Maybe he’ll die here with the truth. What’s even true anymore? The buzzing doesn’t stop.**

“He’s not gonna do that to you.” Miles says firmly, but there’s tenderness in his gruff voice. Empathy. “And you sure as hell didn’t deserve a fuckin’ bit of what he did.”

“It feels like it’s my fault…! Even if I know it doesn’t make any sense, it _feels_ like … what if he was just angry I didn’t save him?”

“Whaddaya mean?”

“The day that— I emailed you, they were doing engine therapy on him…” Waylon speaks slowly, struggling to verbalize what he wants to say. “I got caught— right after I left, but I was … working the code, I— I didn’t stop them! He was begging for help and he— looked _right at me!_ I just _watched,_ Miles! He’s fucked up but then what am _I?”_

Miles is quiet for a moment. Thinking, if Waylon has to guess. _He’s probably horrified by you. He’s trying to think of how to not hurt your stupid fragile feelings._

“What else were you gonna do, though?” Miles finally says. Waylon scratches at his shoulder where there’s the feeling of someone grabbing. 

“What?” He croaks out.

“Say you tried to do something. Like, interrupt the people doing the dirty work. They would’ve thrown you in front of the engine just the way they did. You couldn’t have done anything, I’m pretty sure.”

“It would’ve been worth _trying!”_

“You sent the email, didn’t you?” 

“After _two weeks!”_ Waylon shakes his head. “You don’t have to defend me!”

“I was in that sub-lab, and even without anyone but the Nazi fuck and Hope there, it was freaky as hell.” Miles shrugs, then sighs. “Couldn’t even imagine being surrounded by all those employees and the actual process of whatever shit they did down there. You were scared, right?”

“I worked there for _years,_ and I didn’t … I didn’t have any idea they did those _things_ to people…!” Waylon manages. He’s talking slightly better but his mind still swims. He’s turned to eye Miles warily, or at least the best he can with tears running down his face. “When … When I found out, I— I had no fucking clue what I was gonna do, all of a sudden I wasn’t allowed to talk to my family anymore—! I knew … I had to get the truth out but I was so _scared,_ I barely even— even had the spare time to write that email…”

“I think anyone would be fucked up and terrified. It’s a normal reaction, and I doubt Murkoff was giving you all the time you wanted to leak information.” Miles nearly seems laid-back about it, though Waylon can tell he’s searching for the right words. Neither of them especially like to talk about these things, even if Miles seems to handle it better. “Sure, you weren’t perfect, but I don’t know anyone that _would_ be. You did fine. You did what you could.”

“I … I just don’t…” Waylon shakes his head. “I feel _wrong,_ I feel like a bad person! And I feel like, he— he _ruined_ me, I … I need there to be a fucking reason, it has to have a _reason._ Because if there’s not it’s just all for nothing and I’m—!” His breath hitches and speeds up again, interrupted by coughing.

**The sound of singing almost stops his heart, terror running through his veins. He can’t stop himself from a sharp gasp, and he clasps his hand over his mouth, but the fact that the nearby singing pauses tells him he’s too late. He starts to limp hurriedly, as fast as he can, searching for an exit. Any exit. He won’t get another lucky opening for escape. He’ll be killed or worse if he gets caught now. There’s a door at the end of the room, and he stumbles towards it. He feels like a cornered animal.**

**“There you are, darling!” Calls Eddie’s voice, hauntingly close. “What was all of that about? I promised I’d hold your hand!" His voice dips into something more aggressive. "Don’t tell me you don’t want to do the ceremony! I _know_ you’re not like the rest of those whores! Don’t go proving me wrong!”**

**That’s a threat. That’s a fucking threat. The door is in sight. Waylon reaches for it desperately.**

“Breathe, breathe.” Miles tries to soothe him, prevent him from going into a panic again. “You’re okay.”

“No I’m _not!”_ Waylon snaps, feeling his chest go tight again. His face feels hot, and he’s not sure if what he feels is shame or rage or despair or something else entirely. He’s crumbling again and he can feel it. He blinks and there’s static. 

“Park! Park, it’s okay, c’mon, pal…” Miles moves closer to him, and Waylon feels too frozen to do anything about it, only curling further in on himself. He shouldn’t have gone into this hiding spot. He’s trapped. He’s trapped. Trapped like he was in the grasp of Murkoff and trapped like he was running through the asylum hopelessly. It keeps happening.

**Locked. It can’t be locked. Waylon shakes the door handle violently, pushing and pulling, it has to just be heavy or jammed, it can’t be locked, it can’t be. There’s not any room to turn around and run back across the room. He’s stuck. It’s a dead-end. Nausea builds up as he continues to shake the door, looking wildly around for an escape. His eyes fall on an open window.**

**It’s a stupid, dangerous plan but there’s absolutely nothing that he can do and his body is moving faster than his mind. He grabs the sides of the window and scrambles his way onto the sill. The ground looks dizzyingly far away and he almost starts to rethink it but he takes one glance behind him and sees Eddie, face twisted with rage, stomping towards him, and there isn’t any more hesitation as Waylon pitches himself forwards and only tries to shield his skull and his camera as the ground hurtles to meet him.**

**His leg hits the ground first, immediately crumpling under the force and letting the rest of his body follow. A noise between a crack and a crunch rings through the empty air and if Waylon takes any more injury as he collapses on his back he doesn’t feel it. He gags and wheezes and his vision spins, everything blacking out for a few seconds and coming back with colorful splotches dancing about. His hands tremble violently as he clutches for his leg, gagging in pain, shock the only thing feebly holding him together. His leg is bending right at the midpoint between his ankle and knee, and his already fucked ankle is bent and torn even worse than he remembers. He thinks there’s bone poking through somewhere but he can’t focus enough to tell. Screaming rains down from above him.**

**“Again! You try to run away from me again and again! You’re all the fucking same! You’re not worthy of my love!” Eddie shouts. “I should’ve known! Fine! Go die like the miserable whore you are! You can rot like the rest of those ungrateful sluts!”**

**He hears the words but he only partially processes them. He’s still in stunned shock, adrenaline pumping through him, grasping at his horribly bent leg. He doesn’t know if he’s feeling unimaginable pain or if it’s so bad that he can’t feel it at all.**

**“I ffffucking—“ His voice is raw and scratchy, and he’s aware he’s talking to no one, but he’s not conscious enough to care or to really even follow his own delirious ramblings. “You fffucking _bastard,_ you’re a _monster,_ I hate you, I…!” The more he talks, the more his voice cracks and breaks, babbling and half-shouting his distress to the now-empty window. He hiccups, coughs, and turns his head back down to the grass. He has to keep going. There’s no choice. But he knows that he can’t even hope to walk right now. Dragging himself along with his arms, he crawls his way forwards in hopes of at least getting somewhere more secluded.**

**There’s a fountain, and he drags himself over and into it, just trying to move forwards. The cold water feels nicer than anything he’s felt in a while now, and he can’t stop himself from collapsing, rolling onto his side with his head resting against the edge. With a gasp, the tears start to flood over again as everything sets in. He feels disgusting, physically and mentally. His uniform is filthy, torn and stained with dirt and blood, his nails are chipped and oozing blood, and it seems like every inch of him has some sort of scrape or bruise or burn or gash. It all seems to crash on him now, just how fucking miserable he is, trapped in hell on Earth with nobody to help him. The people who don’t want to hurt him are either entirely catatonic, or dead. He wonders how he isn’t catatonic yet. He probably will be soon. Just a huddling mess in the fountain, another broken patient. What else is new?**

**He’s filthy. Awful and filthy and he can’t stand to be in his own body right now. His skin is crawling and he wants to tear it off and rip out his nerves and and make all of the feelings stop. At some point it felt like there was a chance of getting out of here, of showing the truth to the world. Nothing feels real now. Not Mount Massive and not anything in or outside of it. What would Lisa think of him now? He had last seen her when he was so much happier, if not tired and emotional by nature. He feels like a husk. Maybe she won’t even want him. He wouldn’t want himself. Eddie’s words ring in his mind. Unworthy, whore, ungrateful slut. Maybe that’s just what he is. A stupid, vapid whore that thought he could change anything in this world. And now he’s too disastrous to even be lovable to anybody. Not someone as sweet as Lisa, not someone as violent as Eddie.**

Nobody loves him. Nobody loves him. He’s too idiotic and disgusting for that. He’s hyperventilating. He’s going to be mutilated again because what else is there to do with someone like him? Maybe he’s not even good enough for that. _He called you a slut for a reason. You probably liked everything he did, anyways. You’re twisted enough by now._

**He splashes water on himself, trying to make the dirt and blood and the extra imagined filth go away. He wants to be clean. He wants to be who he was before. His jaw aches and his skin itches with splinters and hands that are always too rough or too gentle. He grasps at the fabric of his uniform, roughly rolling up the pant leg that covers his injured leg. He splashes water against the limb, dimly aware that this water probably isn’t safe, but what else is there to lose? He tries to rub the water in, nerves protesting to any contact. He rubs and scratches desperately from his thigh down to his ankle. He has to make it clean. He just wants to be clean. He wants to forget.**

“Hey. You’re scratching yourself.”

Miles says it so plainly that Waylon doesn’t hear him at first. A few seconds after he actually says it, Waylon jolts and looks at him. “Whh…?”

“You’re scratching yourself. Bad.” Miles points out. Waylon glances down at his own hand. He’s right. He’s scratching right where his thigh meets the rest of his leg. His calf is unharmed by virtue of being made of metal, and his pant leg is somewhat protecting his thigh, but he’s still scratching and rubbing it raw by bunching up and yanking the fabric back and forth. 

“I— oh, uh…” He can’t find the right words. He needs to make the feeling go away, and to make it go away he needs to scratch it away, but now Miles is staring at him and it feels like his eyes are burning into him. He must look awful. A shambling wreck. Filthy, and that’s why he has to scratch and scratch until it goes _away._

Miles backs up, giving Waylon room. He pulls the chairs aside, which causes Waylon to whimper and pull his legs closer to himself. 

“All good. Just giving you room.” Miles says. “You can stay there if you want.”

Waylon does just that, huddling on the floor and glancing around for an escape route if he needs one. Miles is here, he tries to remind himself, Miles will help you. He’s still shaking, and his head aches. He just wants to feel safe and clean and god he _hates_ to feel vulnerable like this he just wants to _rest,_ maybe someone like him doesn’t deserve that but he already has so many selfish thoughts so what’s one more?

“Do you want your cloth thing?” Miles asks, pacing over into the kitchen. “Dunno where the hell it is, but hey. I’ll figure something out here.” The sound of rummaging comes from the kitchen. 

“Please…” Waylon mutters. It’s a heating pad, but he doesn’t have it in him to correct Miles on terminology right now. He can hear the sound of the microwave running, and does what he can to focus on the hum. It’s hard to stay focused on _anything._ The body memories seem to fight for his attention every which way.

The microwave beeps three times, and Waylon counts out four sounds of things opening and closing. Miles is back now. Maybe he had already been standing there a minute. Time is going too fast and too slow at the same time. He’s kneeling down again, pushing the cutesy-designed heating pad, wrapped in a soft, non-scratchy cloth, across the floor and within Waylon’s reach. Watching carefully, Waylon grabs it, wrapping it around his leg. Covered. Safe. Clean. Firm enough to be okay. Not too gentle and not too harsh. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay. It isn’t okay at all but the heating pad is a vague comfort. Miles sits down some feet away from him.

“You with me?”

“Sssorta…” Only barely. Whenever he blinks, he keeps expecting to reopen his eyes and find himself in a locker or on a table or curled up in a fountain.

“Gotcha. Fuckinnnn’ … lemme think.” Miles snaps his fingers. Five times, Waylon notes. “Computers! You’re a computer nerd. Brand of computer. Name one.”

“Wh … uh … Mac …?” Waylon mutters. Macs are a technical disaster, if you ask him, but they’re the first thing to pop into his muddled mind.

“Hell yeah. You got it, super-nerd.” The nickname is teasing, but it’s better than some of the other nicknames he’s had stuck on him. _Don’t think about it._ “Sea animals? Name me two sea animals.”

“Uh … dolphin? And … whale.” He scratches at the side of his arm. _Stop that._

“See? Easy. Just focus.” Miles shrugs. 

“Yyyou— got this idea … from Lisa …” Waylon mumbles. 

“Maybe so. But you’re upset and I’m gonna do what works, ‘cause I care about your dork self.”

Waylon sniffles. “Thanks…” 

**It’s one of the thoughts that keeps repeating while he’s laying there in the fountain. What’s he even here for? What is he doing? He can’t do anything here, and he can’t do anything out there. Nobody cares about Waylon Park.**

“Three … uh … man, you’d think I’d be a faster bullshitter than this, right?” Miles tilts his head. Waylon can feel himself spacing again. “Birds! I got it. You like birds, right?”

“Jack likes birds …” Waylon mumbles back. He has a whole stack of books on birds, really mostly to keep up with Jack. Good to be involved in the boys’ interests. _You worry them too much._

“Well, can you give me three?”

“Chicken … finch … blue jay.” Waylon slowly counts off. “Is that … good?”

“You got it. Keep breathing. Focus on me. Or whatever you need to focus on, I dunno. Remember that you’re here.”

Waylon nods shakily. _You’re here. You’re here. It’s the apartment. No one can hurt you here. He tries desperately to not focus on the pictures in his mind._

“Cats. Four cats.”

“Fuck, uh … Maine Coon … Abyssinian …” He tries to think back to his fixation on cats as a teenager. “Manx … Ragdoll.” He presses the palms of his hands against the carpet. “...Got it.”

They go on like this, back and forth. Five kinds of flowers, six fast food places, seven states. Waylon can’t deny that it makes him feel better. It gives his mind somewhere to go that isn’t the dark halls of the asylum, or the sterile air of the sub-lab. Keeps him from trying to scratch away the hands.

“...Sheep, goats, camels.” Waylon finishes listing off nine animals with hooves. “I … wanna try … standing now.”

“Alright, go for it.” Miles scoots back, standing up himself. “You want help?”

“No, I … got it.” Exhaustion and chronic pain don’t make getting up easy, but Waylon feels determined to do this for himself. He gets a hold on the counter above him, and hoists himself to wobbly feet, holding his heating pad in place with his other hand. “Ta-da…” 

Fuck, he’s dizzy. He leans heavily against the counter, groaning and clutching at his head. He stumbles his way in the direction of the couch, falling against it. 

“Hey, jeez, take it easy. You don’t have to be jumping right back into things right away.” Miles continues to keep a distance, though he’s closer now. 

“Says … you.” Waylon rolls his eyes, laughing just the littlest bit.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” Miles grins. “You want me to grab your blanket? The green one?”

“That’d— be nice. You don’t … have to.” The memories are fading into the back of his mind again, no longer threatening to pull him back into what Hell felt like, but he still feels a nauseous, buzzing headache. 

“I don’t hafta do a lot of shit that I do anyways.” Miles shoots back. “Be right back.”

Miles hurries towards the bedroom, and Waylon turns his head towards the kitchen. It’s the midpoint between there and the living room. The table has one-two-three-four-five chairs, and the fridge has, if he can count from here, a total of thirty-five magnets stuck all over it that he can see. Numbers feel nice. They’re certain and secure. They make his mind work instead of zeroing in on fear and insecurity. It doesn’t always work, but he feels like he’d be worse off without the practice. 

After a moment, Miles comes back with a fluffy green blanket in his arms. He sets it on the couch, and Waylon is quick to grab it and wrap it around himself just the way he likes. Soft and safe and secure, but with room to kick his way out and run if he needs to make a quick escape. The power of a blanket. Burrowing into it soothes him.

“Miles…?” He looks up. Miles is sitting on the arm of the couch, never one to sit on things the proper way if he could help it. “Can we— turn on the TV? I need to not … have the silence. It’ll make me hear things and I … don’t need that right now.”

“Sure thing. I got that singing show you like recorded, you wanna watch that?”

“That … sounds good.” He might fall asleep and have to rewind it, but that’s alright. “Sit by my good side…”

“Yeah, I know.” Miles picks the remote up off the floor, then sits down next to Waylon, careful not to touch him unless he does so first. Waylon appreciates the gesture. “You know you’re a good dude, right?”

“I … question it. You know that.” Waylon sighs. 

“Well, you are one. I know that self-blame shit gets to you, but we all stick around for a reason, y’know?” Miles gives a lopsided grin. “You’re a big-hearted nerd, Way. Wouldn’t want you to be anybody else.”

Miles only uses that nickname when he’s being especially tender. It makes Waylon smile, even if he can’t fully believe what he tells him. Impulsive, rough, and crude as he may be, Miles is always careful with him. The right amount of careful. Waylon leans his head against Miles’s shoulder, watching the announcer on TV hype up the show. If only he could drum up that much energy himself. 

At least there’s Miles. At least he’s here. Not at Mount Massive, not anywhere else. The beliefs and the guilt and the self-doubt aren’t new, and they aren’t leaving any time soon. But at least for now, he’s wrapped up in his blanket, able to feel safe. It’s never really okay, but it is for now. And he just needs to feel okay for now.

**Author's Note:**

> wahey ........ also shout outz 2 my friendz zoe n jeremie n sunny who dealt with me live-posting my WIPz of dis in our outlast server


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